


A Meticulous Recital

by berlynn_wohl



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Hallucinations, M/M, Manipulative Hannibal, Masochism, Power Dynamics, Punishment, Season/Series 01, Unresolved Sexual Tension, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-22
Updated: 2016-03-22
Packaged: 2018-05-28 10:01:19
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6324712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/berlynn_wohl/pseuds/berlynn_wohl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jack Crawford won't let Will Graham do field work for the FBI unless Hannibal writes a positive psychological evaluation confirming Will's sanity. Hannibal won't give Jack that evaluation unless Will does something for him first...</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Meticulous Recital

**Author's Note:**

> The activities portrayed here are not good BDSM and the author does not condone anything that happens in this fic...except, of course, Will Graham being a sassy little muffin.

Will would have been lying if he'd claimed not to be interested in Hannibal's rows of patient notebooks. Neatly arranged and minutely color-coded, they probably said as much about Hannibal himself as they did about the patients, and lately Will had begun to feel the slightest inkling of interest in Hannibal. It wasn't something he cared to admit, and for now he was attributing it entirely to the human tendency to think highly of anyone who listens raptly when you talk to them about yourself. 

But Will dared not touch those notebooks, and he had no hope that he ever would. Instead, he perused the many and varied books on the other shelves. Up here in the mezzanine, it was much warmer, but not uncomfortably so. 

On the ground level, he heard Hannibal's footsteps, and then the rustle of a single sheet of paper. He turned to look down at Hannibal, and was unbalanced by a moment of vertigo. “What's that?” he asked,  gripping the railing. 

Hannibal looked up at Will, a hint of regret in his expression, and said, “I'm afraid I cannot in good conscience confirm your fitness for FBI work. You're barely functional and nowhere approaching sane. This letter to Jack Crawford says as much.” 

Will's stomach turned. The ceiling light suddenly felt uncomfortably hot on his face. He looked to the ladder, his only route to the ground level. He was going to look ridiculous, climbing down that thing, not dramatic at all in this very dramatic moment. But he had no choice, if he wanted to speak to Hannibal eye-to-eye on the matter. “I thought for sure you were going to rubber-stamp me,” he muttered as he made his way down, on legs shaking both from the height and from Hannibal's revelation. 

Hannibal was waiting at the bottom of the ladder. He dipped his head just slightly, trying to get Will to look at him, and not at the ground. “What made you think that?” he asked. 

Will did not want to say out loud what he actually believed, which was that Hannibal so clearly wanted to be friends with him, that he might be inclined to give Will a favorable psychological evaluation just to win him over. Instead, snatching the letter from Hannibal's hand, he said, “I just thought you were more perceptive than that.” He glanced at the letter, but barely read a word before he said, “This just can't be right. I feel well enough. My job is hard, but I do it just fine. Just because I have some bad dreams doesn't mean I'm insane.” 

“Have you considered that you may not be in the best position to evaluate yourself?” 

Will handed the letter back to Hannibal. “This is bullshit. Everything was going fine for me until Jack hired you.” 

“Was it?” The letter in Hannibal's hands was now crinkled. He'd have to print another one. He set it aside on his desk, then returned his attention to Will, who was biting his lip and pacing. Hannibal approached him slowly, giving Will every opportunity to back off, before he advanced close enough that he could smell Will's nervous sweat. 

Will could smell Hannibal, too; he wore no fragrance, but Will could detect the scent of his hair product and aftershave. He looked at Hannibal's pocket square, not daring to glance higher. The suit and its accoutrements seemed different to Will now. Before, he saw only a snob, a dandy who brought his own food everywhere for fear of catching the MSG-flavored cooties of the lower classes. Now, standing this close and having been denied the one thing he tolerated Hannibal's presence in order to obtain, Will felt something else – Hannibal’s power. Hannibal was brilliant, so what, Will knew a lot of geniuses. But he was also wealthy, handsome, and physically imposing. He had doubtless known nothing but power his whole life, doling out portions of mercy only when the whim struck him. And most days, Will would respond to such a man with little more than resentment. But right now, he was something else. He was afraid. 

“You have to help me, Doctor Lecter.” Will took a deep breath and looked into Hannibal's eyes, though he could only stand it for a moment, and then focused just above them, on his forehead. “I can't stop working for the FBI. What I do is too important. I know Jack thinks I need therapy...” 

“No one said you wouldn't get it.” Hannibal gave Will a light, reassuring pat on the arm, then moved towards one of the two facing chairs, inviting Will to sit in the other. “I have found our conversations to be very productive, and, at the risk of sounding unprofessional, your experiences and point of view are very interesting to me. I may in fact be able to see my way towards writing you a more flattering letter...” Here he leaned forward, and spoke in a lower tone. “If, indeed, you would like Jack to be able to lay his weary head to rest, so that our conversations can continue, unobstructed by paperwork.” 

Will could not say he was surprised that Hannibal was trying to wrangle more time with him, though it did strike him as odd, Hannibal implying that he would so willingly stop billing the federal government for such a privilege. In any event, Will made a sweeping gesture of acceptance. “Whatever I need to do. If it's more sessions, that's fine.” 

Steepling his fingers together, Hannibal said, “It has more to do with changing the _nature_ of our sessions.” 

Hanninal did not go on, so Will prompted him: “Changing like how?” 

“It would remain quite confidential,” Hannibal explained without explaining, “the same as if you were still officially my patient. But is so unorthodox, I would not classify it as falling within the realm of a doctor-patient relationship, though we can continue to convene at this location.” 

“So it would be, like...a friend thing? Do you need someone to be on your bowling team?” 

Hannibal smiled politely at this. “Not quite. And I would not say that it constitutes 'a friend thing.' I would be more inclined to call it a _quid pro quo_. The important thing is, if you agree to it, it might change my mind about whether you merit a letter to Jack Crawford confirming your competency.” 

Will did not bother to disguise his reaction, which was bewilderment if not downright suspicion. 

Hannibal held up a conciliatory hand. “I'll give you time to think about it. If you decide you'd like to proceed, come to my office tomorrow evening, at 7:30. If you choose not to, there will be no reprimand, and regardless of your decision, the FBI will not be billed for any more of my time.” 

 

*****

 

Will wanted to be angry with Hannibal, for this trick he was pulling. Offering to write Will the letter he deserved, only in exchange for some under-the-table favor. Will could have Hannibal’s license revoked for such a thing, if he cared to do so. But he didn't. To be honest, he was curious about what this favor could even be. What did Will have that only he could give Hannibal? Did Hannibal harbor a desire to roll around in a pile of seven dogs? This, Will could provide, though it was certainly not his exclusive domain. Perhaps Hannibal was just a morbid weirdo who wanted Will to tell him about all the most gruesome murders he'd ever seen. Will had known people like that, who were obsessed with serial killers as a “hobby,” because it was “fascinating,” treating them like celebrities. It wouldn't surprise him at all if Hannibal were one of those vulgar types. 

But if that were all, Will could certainly tolerate it, and he kept picturing himself walking through that door again into Hannibal's office, sitting with him, having a conversation. Hannibal sometimes responded to the things Will said with maddening cryptic psychobabble, but ultimately Will had to admit, Hannibal was compelling him to think in new ways, to exercise parts of his mind he never knew were atrophied. Like any other person too intelligent for their own good, Will never knew when to relent in his pursuit of knowledge, when to leave well enough alone and spare himself an unpleasant revelation. 

Driving in his car after his last class of the day, Will did not even realize that he had made his final decision until after he had taken the exit for Hannibal's office in Baltimore. 

 

*****

 

This time, rather than the standard facing chairs, Hannibal invited Will to sit with him on the Barcelona couch between the chairs and the window. Feeling the soft leather of the cushion, Will wondered if anyone ever actually utilized this “psychiatrist's couch,” and if so, did they feel silly doing so, like a movie cliché? But if not, then why would Hannibal even have it here at all? 

“I am happy that you returned tonight, though now I face the onerous task of telling you why I asked you to return.” Hannibal shifted, as if there was some other, more comfortable space on this flat, uniform piece of furniture. He then said, haltingly, “I have of late found myself in considerable financial difficulty.” 

Will looked around the room. “You could have fooled me.” 

“Yes, well, this office, lovely as it may be, is not a true reflection of my standing, money-wise. I made rather a lot of purchases on credit, because I anticipated a windfall after what was at the time the imminent death of a distant relative. Unfortunately, the inheritance I had planned on never materialized, and I had nothing to fall back on in regards to my enormous debts. I began borrowing from less-than-reputable sources, which only resulted in new and more perilous consequences. 

“And so recently, by dire necessity, I contacted a semi-estranged family member, in order to help me escape from the terrible situation I had created. He is my uncle, my old Uncle Robertus. He is a rigorous man, whose assistance I would not have asked for if it were not strictly necessary. He intervened, and saved me from the consequences of my foolishness. But now that he has kept me entirely from disgracing myself, not to mention my family, he believes that there is only one method by which I might expiate my misdeeds. He has contrived a very specific regime for me. But because he is overseas, and too ill these days to travel, he must rely on a trustworthy third party to make sure the formula is carried out.” 

Here Hannibal paused, and Will, unsure of that being the end of the explanation, said, “And that's me? The trustworthy third party? The guy who's too crazy to solve crimes?” 

“Please, Will, if you'll let me finish, I think it will become clear to you why I must ask this of you. For all your neuroses, you are above reproach and understand the value of discretion, qualities sadly lacking in just about every other person of my acquaintance.” 

Will thought, _Doesn't Hannibal hang out with nothing but old-money titans of industry at fundraiser dinners? Actually, yes, that makes sense, then, that he doesn't know anyone who isn't a complete bastard._ “Alright,” he sighed “so what am I doing?” 

Hannibal cleared his throat. “I think at this point it might be better to show you his most recent correspondence. It has all the details.” Hannibal rose and went to his desk, from which he retrieved an envelope. He handed it to Will. From the postmarks, Will could clearly see that the letter had come from overseas, but the handwriting on it was cramped and indecipherable, making it impossible for Will to determine a more specific point of origin. He took the letter from the envelope. The color and weight of the paper gave the impression that the sender had had this stationery for fifty years. 

The first paragraph of the letter made it plain how furious this Uncle Robertus was with Hannibal; Will felt a bit chastened himself just reading it. Other misdeeds were alluded to besides the debt Hannibal had mentioned, all of them to do with “insolence” and “dishonor.” 

The second and third paragraphs detailed this uncle's so-called “regime.” It consisted mainly of physical punishment, specifically whipping. Hannibal was to strip to the waist so that twelve strokes could be delivered to Hannibal's bare skin, and there were several precise instructions about the devices with which this could be carried out. 

The final paragraph stated that the person who administered these punishments was to write the uncle a letter confirming precisely how the regime had been carried out in each session, and to what sort of extent. 

The unusual stationery and the remote postmarks demonstrated remarkable dedication, but Will was no fool. The only baffling thing about this letter, in fact, was why Hannibal would hand it to a profiler, who would instantly deduce that it was a fantasy written by the man himself, and not some exasperated uncle. 

Will took a moment to think of the most diplomatic response. He wanted to make sure that Hannibal knew that he knew what was going on, but he did not want to be so blunt about it that Hannibal might flinch and rescind his offer. Will had not yet decided if a letter to Jack clearing him for field work was worth performing this task. 

Finally, he decided to say, “I'm still not understanding why this should fall to me. If your uncle wishes for physical punishment to be meted out, could you not just see a professional dominatrix to get it taken care of?” 

Will had never seen Hannibal look so affronted. “This is not entertainment, Will,” he said curtly. “I am facing a very serious punitive obligation.” 

As loath as he was to do so, Will looked into Hannibal's eyes, and decided that yes, Hannibal knew that he knew, and it did not diminish Hannibal's willingness to try for it. 

“Alright,” Will said, keeping his tone matter-of-fact. “How many times do I have to do this?” 

“As you read, my uncle specified--” 

“I don't care what your uncle specified. Your uncle isn't writing me my letter. How many sessions until I get my clearance?” 

Hannibal hesitated for only a moment; long enough, Will sensed, to determine how few he must ask for in order to obtain Will's cooperation, but without short-changing himself. “Three.” 

“How often?” 

“Every other week, Thursday at 7:30. On alternating weeks we will have our normal conversations.” 

“And when do I get my letter?” 

“When the third session concludes.” 

“Deal.” Will held out his hand to shake, but the moment Hannibal took it, a chill of doubt ran through him. 

 

*****

  

For the next six days, Will was consumed by anxiety about his upcoming session with Hannibal. His primary worry was that Hannibal had not been lying in the first place, that Will actually was dangerously mentally compromised, so much so that he would agree to carry out Uncle Robertus' wishes because he thought he was smart enough to not let himself get caught up in something that was beyond his ability to handle. 

What if Hannibal's agenda was more sinister than he was letting on? What if it turned out that Hannibal had recruited Will for this task because he had a bad reputation with every dom in town? What if there was a damn good reason why no sex worker within two hundred miles would go near him, forcing him to sate his lust for evil using any unsuspecting patient that might cross his path? 

But Will made every effort to push thoughts like these from his mind. Hannibal Lecter was eccentric to be sure, and fiercely intelligent, and perhaps he was even willing to get a little unethical. But ultimately, he was harmless, Will was confident of this. If there was anything dangerous about Hannibal Lecter, he would have picked up on it by now. 

Only once, just before finally falling asleep on Wednesday night, did Will realize that the buzzing in his brain, the fluttering in his chest, the waves of uncertain thrills that he could not suppress, all rather resembled how he'd felt those rare few times when he had fallen in love. It was the same fear: that he was blithely traipsing into something that might crush him. 

 

*****

 

To Will's relief, Hannibal's office had not been converted into a dungeon for the occasion. It remained a  well- (if somewhat oddly-)appointed loft, though tonight it was not as well lit. Instead of the usual overhead illumination, the only sources of light were a few floor and table lamps. 

“Are you ready?” Hannibal said, making his way to his desk after having invited Will in. 

“I think so,” Will said, even less certain than he sounded. 

Hannibal had a decanter and tumbler all ready at the desk. “Would you like a glass of whiskey before we begin?” 

“Actually, I would.” Hannibal was already pouring it. Will knocked back what he was given in one swallow, then immediately regretted it, for the whiskey had clearly been of an exceedingly high quality. He grimaced and said, “Alright, now I'm ready.” 

Hannibal opened one of the desk drawers and took out two items: a neatly-folded sheet, and a whip. He handed the whip to Will, and led him once again to the Barcelona couch. 

Even under the dim light, Will could see that this whip was no cheap, made-in-China toy purchased by a giggling couple at a sex shop. It was a finely crafted instrument. The grip was the thickness of Will's thumb, and wrapped in silver. The lash of it was about eighteen inches of supple black leather, tapered from the grip down to a fine point. 

Meanwhile, Hannibal had unfurled the sheet and laid it across the couch. He then removed his jacket, straight-backed as he undid each button with care. He folded the jacket neatly over the back of one of the chairs. Next, he unbuttoned and removed his waistcoat, and then his tie, swiftly and with a flourish. He sat down, removed his shoes and socks, placed them under the couch, then stood up to take off his shirt. He wore no undershirt beneath it, and so as soon as the top two buttons were undone, Will caught his first glimpse of Hannibal's chest, far furrier than Will had imagined it – if he would ever confess to having imagined it. Without the layers of extravagant tailored clothing, Hannibal seemed smaller, but his proportions had not changed: his posture was upright, his shoulders and chest broad, and his waist noticeably narrower, though his belly was the slightest bit rounded. 

All of this was conducted with the utmost businesslike dignity. Hannibal's body language did not in any way indicate embarrassment, but neither was it inviting. He laid himself unceremoniously down on the bench, pressing his face to the sheet. Will wished he had faced the other way, so that they would not have to look at each other, but he did not see fit to argue. _Whatever this old uncle of his wants_ , Will thought. He gripped the silver handle of the whip, and raised his arm. The muscles across Hannibal's shoulders quivered. 

The first blow cracked sharply against his naked flesh, and then there was silence. No crying, not even a sob or a flinch. Will was not sure if that meant he should try harder. 

The second stroke, dealt with slightly more force, landed parallel to the first. This time, Will could see the muscles in Hannibal's arms go taut as he squeezed the sides of the bench. He swallowed roughly but made no sound. 

Will drew back, and the black hide snapped against a fresh strip of skin, turning it white for an instant before it darkened. For the first time, the whip made a tiny split in Hannibal's flesh, drawing a single crimson drop to the surface. Seeing this made it harder for Will to keep his hand steady. The next time, the whip landed haphazardly across Hannibal's shoulder blades. As Will examined the red weal left behind, he could see that the sheen of sweat on Hannibal's flesh was now beading across his shoulders and back. He wondered if the salt of it stung where the whip had cut sufficiently deep. 

As Will continued with his lashes, it became more difficult to avoid existing marks. Where two strokes crossed one another, a bead of blood swelled. Hannibal's teeth were gritted, his knuckles white. 

Stroke number ten, at last, pulled a soft, strangled noise from Hannibal's throat. His body was shifting now, but most of it seemed to be happening below the waist: Hannibal's toes curled as his hips twitched. Will's gaze darted up to Hannibal's face, and there he glimpsed silent tears welling in his eyes. 

The penultimate lash crossed two existing weals, and Hannibal began to pant, looking to Will expectantly, ready to abandon his iron control over his own body. His eyes shone as Will raised his arm. 

The final blow cut hard, and Hannibal was overcome by a full-body shudder, his eyes rolling back just as his eyelids fluttered shut. He heaved a great, trembling sigh, and when he looked back at Will again, his eyes were glassy and unfocused. 

Will wanted to feel disgust, but it wouldn't come to him. Instead, he was astounded by the incredible control Hannibal had over his body. He did not climax prematurely, after the eleventh stroke, nor did he need a thirteenth to finish. 

In any case, Will was relieved to see it; at last, his task was over. Hannibal was striped from his neck to the small of his back, and was, apparently, satisfied about it. He sat up, revealing a damp shadow where he had sweated onto the sheet. “This was not stipulated in my uncle's correspondence,” he said, “so you are under no obligation, but I wonder if you couldn't help me apply an astringent to my wounds. They're difficult for me to reach.” 

Will was still holding the whip. He tossed it onto the chair. “Yeah, I can do that.” 

Hannibal slowly raised himself to a standing position, and wobbled slightly as he made his way to the little bathroom in the back of the office. 

While waiting, Will remembered that the uncle's letter had specified that the person who dealt the punishment must confirm having done so in writing. He had a suspicion about the true nature of this request, but he felt that he should continue to behave naively about the agreement, and so he took the opportunity to sit at Hannibal's desk, find a plain piece of paper with no letterhead on it, and write: 

 

 _I, Will Graham, hereby state that I administered twelve strokes with a whip to Dr. Hannibal Lecter on Thursday, the 14 th of March._

 

He signed it, then set the pen aside and folded the paper into thirds. 

When Hannibal returned, he was wearing a different pair of trousers, and he carried a bottle of astringent and a washcloth, which he handed over to Will. When he sat back down on the couch, Will sat behind him with no prompting. 

Will tipped the mouth of the bottle against the washcloth, and dabbed gently at the reddest streaks among those he had delivered, staining the washcloth as he went. This was the closest examination Will had made of Hannibal's back so far, and he could now see, underneath his own fresh strokes, pale, faint scars crisscrossing his flesh, scars of a comparable width and length. Were these original wounds administered by request, Will wondered, or was their acquisition by force? 

Afterwards, Hannibal thanked Will. He re-dressed in his shirt, but not in his waistcoat or jacket, as they no longer matched the trousers he wore. There was a moment of hesitation, where both men wondered what they should say before their final goodbye for the evening. 

“Oh, I almost forgot,” Will said at last, “I wrote this statement, for you to send along to your uncle.” He picked up the letter from the desk and handed it to Hannibal, who unfolded it and gave it a glance. 

Hannibal tutted and shook his head. “I'm afraid this won't do at all,” he said. “My uncle will only be satisfied by an account that is as finely detailed as he requests in his letter. If it's not too much trouble, could you compose it in the next week, and bring it to our next session? Any more of a delay and I fear his further reprisal.” 

“Shouldn't be a problem,” Will sighed, his suspicion confirmed. 

 

*****

 

Will got himself into his car, but could not manage to get his seat belt buckled or turn the ignition for several minutes. Having gotten himself to this distance, he began to panic at the thought of what had just happened. His chest felt too small, and he was unable to control his breathing or his tears. He could not stop his hands shaking to even retrieve his keys from his pocket. He suddenly became aware of how much he had sweated while he'd been in Hannibal's office, and how his clothes clung to him. 

What unsettled him the most, in this moment, was that he could hardly recall what he had actually done, but did have a perfect, photographic memory of Hannibal standing shirtless, his solid, masculine body mesmerizing in that moment before he laid himself down to submit to Will. It had been a long time since Will had been attracted to a man, and he did not want to be attracted to this one right now. It was bad enough he had grown more fond of Hannibal of late, just because he seemed to care about Will and his well-being. It reminded him how little control he had over the way he was affected by other people's treatment of him...and how few defenses he had built – had needed to build – against those who were enamored of him. 

 

*****

 

When Will returned two weeks later, it was with a two-page handwritten letter for Hannibal – that is, for his uncle – and Hannibal found this one satisfactory. He did not read every word then and there, but he seemed pleased at the length. He tucked the letter away in a drawer, and their next session proceeded. 

This second session was a nearly identical experience to the first, and afterward Will found himself sitting at his desk back at home, faced with the task of writing another detailed report. He couldn't just write the same thing; it had to differ somehow, or Hannibal might insist he do it over, lest he incur the wrath of his fabled uncle. Pen in hand and poised over a blank legal pad, Will reckoned that he had found himself in a true Catch-22: he was doing this only so he could get a letter certifying that he was not crazy, but one had to _be_ crazy in order to submit to these circumstances in the first place. 

But if he was deranged, then at least he was in good company. After all, what would it take for a man to ask what Hannibal had asked of him? How desperate, how consumed must one be, to beg so brazenly for such a favor? In the beginning, Will had felt taken advantage of, blackmailed frankly, when Hannibal had made the offer. But how pitiful Hannibal seemed to him now, how silly, exercising his considerable influence this way. _You sure have to possess a lot of power over someone before you can force them to treat you like dirt_ , Will mused. 

It was at this moment, this realization, that Will's frustration and confusion boiled over, resulting in a wave of wicked inspiration. If Hannibal wanted a letter about his own beating that he could jerk off to, Will would provide it. He would gladly recount the way this rich, snooty bastard had humiliated himself. Proceeding now purely in the interest of his own entertainment, Will embellished this second letter somewhat, veering past the facts of the session and heading straight into Hannibal's desire:

 

_I had hoped that my first session with Hannibal would have snuffed out at least a portion of his willfulness, but I arrived for our second session to find him just as incorrigible as ever. Obviously a greater portion of chastisement would be necessary to make him sorry for his degradation of the family name. Hannibal possesses enough self-discipline to suppress any cries of pain, but I exercised no restraint, and judging by the marks I sliced into his flesh, I believe he was sufficiently humbled by my accurate wielding of the whip..._

 

He paused to re-read that last sentence. Had Hannibal actually seemed any more humble afterwards? Will was having a difficult time discerning whether he was writing from memory or imagination. In fact, now that he was thinking about it, he seemed to be having more difficulty telling those two things apart in general, lately. Well, he would set aside time to worry about that later. For now, he just wanted to get this finished.

 

_...Hannibal has a surprising capacity for punishment, but with each red and angry weal that blossomed across his back, I grew more confident that I had pushed him to his very limits. Every flick of the whip echoed in that cavernous room, and, I believe, in his guilty soul..._

 

Will leaned back, wondering if he was not wasted on law enforcement when his true calling was clearly the romance novel business. But this thought dissolved as it occurred to him that perhaps thinking of this the way he would as a law enforcement officer might be a better route. 

Say that Hannibal was a serial killer on the loose. This was ridiculous, he knew, but say that he was, and all that was known about him was that he had been asking people to whip him. Will would consider that this was not merely a sexual kick, but a ritual of self-degradation and chastisement. What did this man feel he needed to be punished for? 

Will wished he could simply ask Hannibal this. But it was out of the question. He could not betray that he felt the slightest interest in the situation, lest Hannibal snare him further. If Hannibal was a man of his word, Will had only one more session to go, and then he could leave all this madness behind him, and resume his normal life. 

Outside his window, something was moving. Will looked up, and mostly saw his own reflection in the glass, but he could make out what looked like an animal. He reached for the lamp and flicked the switch.  Approaching his front yard, illuminated by the porch light, was a massive stag, bigger than any he'd ever seen on his property. And it was black, all over. Will watched it, silent and still, for a minute or more, until it wandered off. Its coat shimmered strangely under the porch light, as though its fur was not fur at all. 

After it was gone. Will could not bring himself to turn the light back on and continue with his evening routine. It was late, and his head was starting to hurt again, so he just shucked his jeans and got into bed.

 

*****

  

As their third session was about to begin, Hannibal begged Will to savor his glass of whiskey this time, and Will gladly complied. 

Hannibal replaced the bottle in the drawer, then took up an unfolded piece of paper from the desk. “I received another letter from my uncle; this one is his response to your reports.” 

“Postal service works fast,” Will remarked sardonically, before he could stop himself. Hannibal ignored this. 

“He does not believe that the regime he initially ordered is proving effective. He has decreed that I receive the whip elsewhere.” Hannibal offered the letter. 

Will took it from Hannibal, who then turned to sit on the Barcelona couch and methodically remove his shoes and socks in preparation for the session. The letter went on at length about Hannibal's continued sullying of the family name, his refusal to behave as a man of honor, and so on and so forth. Two thirds of the way down, sure enough, the uncle specified that, in addition to his back, Hannibal must also be whipped on the thighs and buttocks. Naturally. 

“Ha ha, no,” Will said, and as he folded the letter, he looked up to see Hannibal retrieving the whip and bringing it to him. “No, no way, no. I tried to be cool about this. Haven't I been cool? But this was not part of the agreement.” 

“What are you afraid of?” 

“That this isn't going to stop. That I'll have to do something else, and something else, and something else before I get my letter.” 

“The letter is already written,” Hannibal said, and nodded in the direction of where it sat on his desk. “It's all yours. Just twelve strokes, and it's yours to take.” 

Will looked down at the whip, but hesitated to take it from Hannibal's hand. Hannibal stepped closer, held it out further, but Will was frozen on the spot. He allowed Hannibal to get so close, he could feel Hannibal's breath on his ear as he whispered, “You and I are just alike – we both need to be used by other men, desperate to be worked to exhaustion by punishing rituals.” 

“No,” said Will, softly but without hesitation. “I'm not like that at all. I _have_ to do what I do, because I'm the only one who can.” 

“About that, we agree. You're the only one who can.” Hannibal held up the whip between them. “Please, Will.” 

“I'm only doing this,” Will said as he plucked the whip from Hannibal's hand, “because I want my letter. Not because what you just said was in any way insightful or correct.” 

“That is fair.” 

Will was getting tired of this game. He was fed up with Hannibal. He couldn't stand it anymore. 

Hannibal lifted one hand, to undo the buttons of his jacket. Will seized his wrist and forced his hand back to his side. He dropped the whip onto the nearest chair and yanked open the jacket's buttons himself, then grabbed it by the lapels and shoved it off of Hannibal's shoulders, letting it crumple to the floor. 

“Maybe you are just as awful as your uncle says you are,” he sneered. 

Hannibal remained stone-faced. “Perhaps I am indeed.” 

Will set to work on the buttons of Hannibal's waistcoat, then his shirt, tearing the last two buttons away with impatience. He said, “Maybe you have done something you should feel ashamed of.” 

“It is entirely possible,” Hannibal replied mildly. 

Too far gone now to worry about how it looked, or what message he was sending, Will unbuttoned and unzipped Hannibal's trousers, then hooked his thumbs in the waistband and shoved them and his underwear down in one go. Hannibal now stood naked before Will...just as he had desired to. Will could smell him, his body odor faint but apparent, fresh and musky. With each breath, his furry chest rose and fell. His uncircumcised cock was half-hard. Will didn't mean to look at it, but on the other had, how could he avoid it? 

Will leaned over to pick up the whip from the chair where he had dropped it. He gestured with it, indicated that it was time for Hannibal to lie down, growling, “I'm going to make your uncle very happy today.” 

“It's all I asked of you,” Hannibal said, obediently laying himself prone on the couch. Just then Will noticed that Hannibal had not had a chance to drape it with a sheet as he had before. _It must be driving him crazy_ , Will thought, not wanting to interrupt the proceedings to retrieve it, but faced instead with the inevitability of spoiling its pristine surface. 

Will took a few seconds – it felt like hours – to allow his eyes to wander over Hannibal's body, stretched out and aching for punishment. It was at times like these that he found it harder to convince himself that he was the helpless victim of his empathy disorder, that he was not truly feeling attraction towards a person, only reflecting their attraction back at them. Hannibal was so gorgeous, and so strange. _Maybe,_ Will thought, _as strange as me._

The first blow was so vicious, so much fiercer than any Will had yet delivered as part of this deal, that Hannibal actually grunted with the shock of it. It sliced across his behind, leaving behind a red streak flecked with slowly swelling beads of crimson. 

The next flick of the whip landed just at the crease where thigh met buttock. This one Hannibal bore in silence, though his entire body flexed with it, his thighs becoming yet more taut, his buttocks becoming rounder with the tension, his back and shoulders straining. And Will noticed, now, that Hannibal had spread his thighs, just a fraction, just enough so that, taking a step closer, Will could catch sight between them of his sack, soft and vulnerable. Will considered attempting to strike it, but it seemed too dangerous. Instead, he dragged the whip between Hannibal's legs, letting it slither agonizingly over his balls, between the cheeks of his ass. Only then did he draw back, to deliver a blow across the small of Hannibal’s back instead. This one raised a weal but did not bleed. 

His next strike was a flick of the very tip against Hannibal's inner thigh, hard enough to count but not hard enough to split that pale, delicate skin. And with that, all pretense of the wayward debtor submitting to an elaborate rigmarole of painful abasement was abandoned. Hannibal twitched his hips, presenting his ass, begging to have more ferocious red streaks across it. 

And Will was determined not to disappoint, continuing with the meticulous recital of the tyrannical uncle's decrees. Three, four, five more strokes he inflicted, watching all the while as Hannibal's body rippled in distress, his fingers clamping harder into the couch, his face crushed into the leather. When Will realized he had lost count, he merely had to count the crimson lashes he'd already left behind, and then continued with confidence. 

It was when he had but three blows left that Will slowed down, determined to make them count. He located three fresh stripes of untouched flesh, one across Hannibal's behind and two more low on the backs of his thighs, stained with nothing more than a sheen of perspiration. 

“Ten,” Will said aloud, to cue Hannibal if he needed it, and struck him just above the knees. 

“Eleven,” he said, and landed a second blow higher, and more directed towards that sensitive flesh of the insides of the thighs. 

Hannibal was panting, his body coiled tight, hiccuping each time he attempted to swallow. 

“Twelve,” Will said, and increasing his swing, his force, dealt the final lash, searing a long furrow across Hannibal's ass, and eliciting a final ragged whimper and a full-body shiver. 

Will let the whip fall from his hand. At last, this was all over. He could grab the letter from the desk and walk out with it this instant. He should. But then he remembered the wounds, that they would need the astringent. Hannibal had told him he was not required to see to that, but Will couldn't help but feel that to abandon that task would be to leave things unfinished. 

“Don't move,” he said, not an order, but a offer of assistance. He went into the bathroom, pulled the hand towel from the rack and the astringent from under the sink. 

When he returned, he found that Hannibal had reached down to pick up the whip, and was rubbing his thumb contemplatively over the etched designs of the silver handle. He continued to fiddle with it while Will knelt by the couch and cleaned him where his skin had been broken, and never so much as winced at what must have been raw, stinging pain. 

This close to him, to his body, Will gave in to the temptation to examine the fine, fair hairs on Hannibal's skin. The smell of his fresh sweat wafted into Will's nostrils, and his utter contentment, similarly, radiated from his body and threatened to overcome Will's senses. 

“Will,” Hannibal said, his voice soft and rasping. 

Will paused, siting back on his heels and bending closer to listen to him. 

“You're the only one who can truly understand me,” Hannibal said. 

Was that all? With a derisive snort, Will returned to his task. “The desires you harbor are well-documented and understood.” 

“No, I said you are the only one who can understand _me._ ” Hannibal opened his palm, showing the whip, letting it fall to the floor. “Not _this_.” Deciding that he'd received sufficient treatment, Hannibal moved to lift himself from the couch, and Will stood up and backed out of the way. Standing up straight, Hannibal took the towel from Will, used it to clean himself where he had ejaculated against his belly, then wiped down the couch where it had been stained with his semen. 

Will was unable to watch all of this impassively, but he pretended that he could. “Have you forgotten,” he said, allowing a little irritation into his voice, “that you were supposed to be the one helping _me_?” He picked up the letter from Hannibal's desk, holding it up for effect. “Hm?” 

“We are helping each other,” Hannibal said, making no move to get dressed or excuse himself to the bathroom. “Is that not desirable? Be honest with me: How do you feel now that we have both fulfilled our obligation?” 

After a moment's thought, Will said, “Satisfied, I suppose. We made an agreement. We had to trust each other to see it done. And in the end...we both got what we wanted. So we're both happy.” He looked at Hannibal with a shrug. “Aren't we?” 

Hannibal's mouth curled subtly, leaving most of the smiling to his eyes. “I'm very happy,” he replied.

 


End file.
